Father again
Father, who in spite of his infirmity had always enjoyed good health, now began to go back. His bronchitis got worse and on top of that, the paralysis which had remained stagnant for many years now began to creep upwards. It soon became evident that he wasn't going to be with us much longer. He was now about sixty, and considering he had been crippled so many years he had done well to survive so long. Perhaps survive is not the right word, for he was as happy a man as you could wish to meet.
I well remember the night he died. We had been sitting up with him for three or four nights, including my single sister who gave up her job in London to come home and help Mother. Father hadn't been conscious for almost a week, but Mother soon noticed a change, woke me and said "Go and fetch Reg and Charley, and hurry". Even I could tell, listening to his shallow breathing, that he hadn't much longer to go. I raced up the road on my bike, woke my brothers, and we were very soon back at the bedside. We sat there, a rather pitiful little group, waiting for the end. I think at the back of our minds we were rather wondering what would happen when he breathed his last. He had been a real Christian if ever there was one, and we wouldn't have been greatly surprised if there had been some sort of visual evidence of God welcoming home one of His true servants. But Joe just gave a little sigh, and he was gone.
Although we had been waiting for the end it was still a shock to realise it was all over. My brothers made him a panelled oak coffin with solid brass furniture, the best there was. The funeral was, as usual in those days, a walking affair. The coffin rested on the wooden hand hearse, pulled by four of his brothers up the long mile to the church. In numbers it must have been one of the largest funerals ever held in the parish, for Father and his wheel chair were known for miles around, and he had many good friends who came along to pay their last respects. The memory that remains the clearest to me was of the hymn sung at the grave side. All of Father's remaining six brothers were there, his two sisters and all our family. They were all good singers with basses, tenors, altos and trebles. They really made the welkin ring, and I shall never forget it.
After the funeral, as was the custom, all the family and his closest friends came back to the old home for refreshments and of course, a good 'natter'. Many of them hadn't met for years, so there was plenty to talk about. Death should have been a sorrowful affair, but in Father's case everyone was so certain that he had only exchanged a rather difficult life on earth for a much better one in heaven that sorrow took a back seat. It was a new beginning rather than a sorrowful end.
I always remember one comment he made when someone said to him that life after death was only a myth. Joe answered "Well I certainly don't believe it's only a myth. But just suppose it is. Isn't it better to die believing in a second and better life to come, than to think that death is the end?" The logic of that observation seems to me indisputable. He was blessed with a good sense of humour too. One evening after several of his friends had been to see him, he told me how he had enjoyed the company. Joe said "Well, they cheered me up no end." Different to one old chap who was lying very ill upstairs. A friend of his who came to see him went into the bedroom, and his first words were "Dang me Billy, thas goin' ter be an awkward ol' staircairse ter git a corfin down!"
With Joe at rest, life began again much as usual. It was a blessing in many ways that Mother kept the Post Office, for it kept her busy and there was always someone to talk to. She must have missed Father a very great deal, for he had always been at home, day and night. For all that she bore up well.
As far as I was concerned, I now felt I was the man of the house and did my best. I was happy enough, except for Sundays. Nothing to do with Father, but with my clothes. In those days after a death in the family, everyone wore black for what was considered a decent time, or in the case of the menfolk black arm bands. My best suit at that time was a rather hectic blue, and Mother decided it wasn't 'decent', even with black arm bands. So she approached some of our male relations and one of them came up with a black suit, and what a horror it was! It was donkey's years old, and a replica of the clothes you see in old Victorian photographs.
A long jacket, single breasted, with about a dozen buttons down the front, two outside breast pockets and a belt. The trousers were real drainpipes that I could barely get my feet through. Couple all this with the fact that it was far too big for me, and you can realise that when I looked in the mirror I nearly cried. I was now eighteen, just the age to be clothes‑conscious. I only wore it about three times, and it looked so horrible that even Mother never objected when I refused to wear it any more. So it was packed away, and I never saw it again. I don't know what became of it, but I would dearly love to have made a bonfire of it. Mother sewed arm bands on to my best suit and that was that.
I well remember the night he died. We had been sitting up with him for three or four nights, including my single sister who gave up her job in London to come home and help Mother. Father hadn't been conscious for almost a week, but Mother soon noticed a change, woke me and said "Go and fetch Reg and Charley, and hurry". Even I could tell, listening to his shallow breathing, that he hadn't much longer to go. I raced up the road on my bike, woke my brothers, and we were very soon back at the bedside. We sat there, a rather pitiful little group, waiting for the end. I think at the back of our minds we were rather wondering what would happen when he breathed his last. He had been a real Christian if ever there was one, and we wouldn't have been greatly surprised if there had been some sort of visual evidence of God welcoming home one of His true servants. But Joe just gave a little sigh, and he was gone.
Although we had been waiting for the end it was still a shock to realise it was all over. My brothers made him a panelled oak coffin with solid brass furniture, the best there was. The funeral was, as usual in those days, a walking affair. The coffin rested on the wooden hand hearse, pulled by four of his brothers up the long mile to the church. In numbers it must have been one of the largest funerals ever held in the parish, for Father and his wheel chair were known for miles around, and he had many good friends who came along to pay their last respects. The memory that remains the clearest to me was of the hymn sung at the grave side. All of Father's remaining six brothers were there, his two sisters and all our family. They were all good singers with basses, tenors, altos and trebles. They really made the welkin ring, and I shall never forget it.
After the funeral, as was the custom, all the family and his closest friends came back to the old home for refreshments and of course, a good 'natter'. Many of them hadn't met for years, so there was plenty to talk about. Death should have been a sorrowful affair, but in Father's case everyone was so certain that he had only exchanged a rather difficult life on earth for a much better one in heaven that sorrow took a back seat. It was a new beginning rather than a sorrowful end.
I always remember one comment he made when someone said to him that life after death was only a myth. Joe answered "Well I certainly don't believe it's only a myth. But just suppose it is. Isn't it better to die believing in a second and better life to come, than to think that death is the end?" The logic of that observation seems to me indisputable. He was blessed with a good sense of humour too. One evening after several of his friends had been to see him, he told me how he had enjoyed the company. Joe said "Well, they cheered me up no end." Different to one old chap who was lying very ill upstairs. A friend of his who came to see him went into the bedroom, and his first words were "Dang me Billy, thas goin' ter be an awkward ol' staircairse ter git a corfin down!"
With Joe at rest, life began again much as usual. It was a blessing in many ways that Mother kept the Post Office, for it kept her busy and there was always someone to talk to. She must have missed Father a very great deal, for he had always been at home, day and night. For all that she bore up well.
As far as I was concerned, I now felt I was the man of the house and did my best. I was happy enough, except for Sundays. Nothing to do with Father, but with my clothes. In those days after a death in the family, everyone wore black for what was considered a decent time, or in the case of the menfolk black arm bands. My best suit at that time was a rather hectic blue, and Mother decided it wasn't 'decent', even with black arm bands. So she approached some of our male relations and one of them came up with a black suit, and what a horror it was! It was donkey's years old, and a replica of the clothes you see in old Victorian photographs.
A long jacket, single breasted, with about a dozen buttons down the front, two outside breast pockets and a belt. The trousers were real drainpipes that I could barely get my feet through. Couple all this with the fact that it was far too big for me, and you can realise that when I looked in the mirror I nearly cried. I was now eighteen, just the age to be clothes‑conscious. I only wore it about three times, and it looked so horrible that even Mother never objected when I refused to wear it any more. So it was packed away, and I never saw it again. I don't know what became of it, but I would dearly love to have made a bonfire of it. Mother sewed arm bands on to my best suit and that was that.
posted by curlybonce | 2:33 pm
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